We arrived in Paris in a whirlwind, quite literally! The city lay beneath quite the tempestuous skies, thunder almost struck us twice! The sky was thick with clouds, so much so that we nearly clipped the top of the Eiffel Tower, which of course would have been more aggravating for us than for the great Iron Lady. My parents have had a small timber-framed house in one of the most wonderful, narrow, medieval winding streets in the Latin Quarter—my favourite area—for about twenty years now; they are deeply fond of Paris. At times, I wonder why they did not choose to retire here, but then I am struck by the haunting and seemingly inescapable memory of the sublime Scottish moors which seem to have taken root within my brain for an eternity. My travels have been incredibly enticing and somewhat liberating, and while I have met some very fascinating characters along the way and I have of course gotten to know more about my beloved companion Bartholomew, I believe that I am beginning to feel a tingle of homesickness. I yearn for Edinburgh and its sharp, cold winds that cut the air and penetrate my bones, the dense aroma of petrichor and my sweet routine. The unknown is terrifyingly daring, though I suppose I have begun to learn its ways ever since my hot air balloon first met an air that didn’t belong to Scotland.

I am rambling… Paris! Here we are, our second and final destination in Europe, which I do not doubt we will return to. I have stayed in our home many times though never without my parents: Christmas in Paris, February, May, June, October (one of my favourite months in Paris, or in general in fact). It felt strangely empty for a millisecond, until Mr. Buttons waltzed through the door and marvelled at its interior. All the furniture was either found in flea markets, or on the street, most of the photos and old daguerreotypes hung on the walls as well, our dishes and cutlery are all antique, and of course all the books are in French; neatly organised on the shelves you will find Hugo, Baudelaire, Verlaine, Balzac, Molière, Barjavel, Camus, etc. While Bartholomew settled on the window sill to observe the passersby below, I hung my coat which I will be giving up for a time as the warm weather lingers, I am not keen on it but alas, it is July. Additionally, we had decided that we would stay longer in Paris than we had in any other of our destinations, therefore, my first day was spent mostly home armed with a thorough plan.

Here is a non-exhaustive list of my tasks upon arrival:

• Pick up my trunk and a few bags from my hot air balloon which is kept safely away from unwanted eyes near our home in a location which I will not disclose for obvious reasons.

• Walk back home with said trunk and bags through the cobbled streets. Unfortunately for me, or shall I say fortunately, the bulk of what one may find upon opening my large, leather trunk is books. I have been quite prolific in my shopping during my travels.

• Have tea with the landlady whom I have known since I first came here to iron out a few administrative wrinkles.

• I must continue to ponder a list of names for my beloved hot air balloon. This stems from a long-standing tradition in my family that each new silk deserves its own name. However, this endeavour is starting to feel more and more like a Sisyphean task. I must also write to my mother as soon as I have elected a proper name in order for her to embroider it and send it back to me in order for it to be stitched to my glorious striped silk. I may have to enlist the help of Bartholomew.

• Dust the house, open the windows, have tea again (naturally), and try to ignore the fact that my legs are protesting as loudly as Mr. Buttons’ were while climbing the duomo in Florence—though he still denies it, repeating that he simply wanted to ‘enjoy the view progressively’, what a proud fellow. Speaking of, I am unsure of where he has wandered off to…

The storm has settled into a soft and warm drizzle propelled sideways by the wind, I have had to close the windows. I feel my eyelids becoming heavy and the pattering of the rain has begun to lull me to sleep; the thrill of our travels has finally caught up to me it seems.

Salutations dear reader,

My name is Mr. Bartholomew Buttons, you might have read about me in Matilda’s wonderful column if you are as loyal a reader as I am. The thrill of our travels seems to have indeed resulted in quite the nap as she is still soundly asleep in her bedroom. She has left her fountain pen and this letter open on the study. I thought I could relieve her of her duties for a short while and perhaps take you on one of my adventures.

Matilda and I began our morning with the ordinary cup of English Breakfast tea for her and a black coffee for me that we enjoyed while discussing her favourite French book, La Nuit des Temps. She had also gone to fetch some croissants from the quaint bakery that stands on the corner of the street. It was quieter than usual seeing as we had not been swept up by the day just yet. However, this lasted only for a fleeting moment seeing as Matilda has set a clear plan for her first day in Paris which consisted of sorting out the flat, and—well, she seems to have included her list of tasks, you are already caught up. Thus, I thought it might be better suited if I simply disappeared for a few hours in order to avoid causing any disturbances.

As you may know, I have a vast network of mouse acquaintances scattered over Europe. You met my Italian friends, Antonio and Leonardo in Matilda’s last letter. Now, you may tell yourself that this is rather strange seeing as I am a cat, but I have never found mice to be appetising; I have a strong preference for fish. When I visited Paris a few years ago, I met Gustave or ‘Gus’, a Parisian mouse with a faint lisp who steals pieces of croissants from bakeries—sometimes entire halves—he doesn’t even have a family to feed, Gustave is simply a ravenous little fellow. I met him as I left the Sorbonne University that I had infiltrated in order to attend a few classes. Admittedly, I had strayed from my path after I left and was perhaps slightly lost. I saw him sitting near the entrance of a metro station eating a piece of a croissant of course. He saw me out of the corner of his eye and dropped his croissant out of fright and began running. I must admit that Gustave is not the usual slender Parisian mouse seeing as his diet relies entirely on croissants; he was not very fast on his feet. I caught up to him quite quickly and I had taken the time to pick up his croissant which he distrustfully took back. I explained that I am friendly to mice and seeing as it was my first time in Paris, I would very much appreciate some directions in order to find the Louvre Museum. We walked there together and as he began to lower his guard—surely thinking that any cat would have eaten him by now—we became friends.

Returning to today, I slipped out of the flat through the balcony, making my way through the zinc roofs. I decided to go on a stroll in the hopes of finding my dear friend who usually lurks around the same bakery for he has deemed their croissants to be ‘les meilleurs de Paris.’ I will take his word for it, I suppose. I was right! There he sat, croissant in hand. He saw me and reacted as he had the first time he laid eyes on me, by dropping his croissant, but this time with a smile that lit up his entire face. We walked alongside the Seine and talked for a few hours until I eventually thought that it might be best to return to my dear Matilda before she starts wondering where I have gone. I said my goodbyes to Gustave whom I promised I would see again seeing as Matilda and I had planned on staying a bit longer. I had walked quite far therefore, I chose to take the metro back to the house. Speaking of, I have arrived at my stop and I am walking towards our abode. I hope that Matilda is well-rested so that I may tell her about Gustave. I am sure that she will find him darling—she enjoys saying that regarding small things or individuals.

I called out for her as soon as I stepped inside, but no answer came. The house was in a slight disarray, and several strange details immediately caught my attention. After a few minutes of searching, I almost bellowed:

‘Matilda! Oh, my! She’s disappeared!’

There is no time to dilly-dally, I must find her.

I hope that by the time the next letter arrives in your letterboxes, I will have found my dear friend and your beloved writer, safe and sound.

Your acquaintance,

Mr. Buttons

Interestingly enough, my generation—Gen Z—seems to mirror its 20th-century peers in many ways. We are a generation that has seen our lives heckled by the Covid-19 pandemic and disrupted by the major geopolitical events and wars that have plagued the 2020s. We are a disillusioned generation, one who is being asked to step into adulthood as the world seems to be crumbling beneath our feet. All while carrying the immense pressure of hope—hope that we may yet redeem and repair this broken world. A burden of mandated optimism. One could argue—as showcased in Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises—that the ‘Lost Generation’ of the 1920s had the luxury of wandering aimlessly, while we on the other hand, are being handed the bill for a decaying planet. While they languished in Parisian cafés—reading, discussing, and retreating into their passive cynicism and a sort of glamorous, detached nihilism—we consume global catastrophe through a digital panopticon for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

As we forge ourselves into perhaps the most self-aware generation in history, we become hyper-conscious of both our own suffering and the world’s. Thus living a claustrophobic existence, feeling trapped both inside of our minds and outside. Yet we must endure the constant, reductive bickering of our elders—‘Get off your phone!’ ‘Go outside!’—mistaking an existential and mental health crisis for a simple screen addiction. While I am not consumed by the digital world and engage in reading, writing, culture, etc most often, my traumatic childhood and my neurodivergent nature have held me back from leading a mentally healthy life. Instead of being met with empathy and compassion in the medical system, I have mostly faced an utter lack of those two qualities and brutality, in turn worsening my health—both physically and mentally. That is why I evoke the mental health crisis that my generation appears to be facing. We are more often than not told that it is our fault for feeling too deeply, being enamoured by our phones, and that we are dramatic and attention-seeking. The reason why Gen Z is isolating itself and struggling to make connections is not because we are obsessed with social media, it is because we are not being heard and we are not being helped.

Instead of experimenting with our youth, we are being told that we must conform to a societal ideal—both on the job market and in social advancements. Furthermore, we must now carry the responsibility of reversing climate change in a world where the people responsible for it hold the most power, yet it is nurtured by corruption and an utter lack of a moral compass. For those of us who are artists, who live and breathe only for our art, we are told that it is useless and that it is impossible to weave a career from it and earn a living. In addition, our art—whether it is writing, painting, creative design, singing, photography, acting, filmmaking, etc—is actively being robbed from us by the looming, parasitic threat of A.I.

I would not like to come across as someone who does not respect previous generations, because that is not the case. However, unlike our parents and our grandparents especially, we seem to no longer comply with somewhat outdated societal expectations of what a job or a family should look like. And we certainly do not comply with the idea that we should not speak about mental health and our struggles as young adults. We do not see our mental health as a symptom of our weakness but rather as a symptom of our uniqueness and strength. We speak up for our rights and for the rights of others, we advocate for ourselves and for those who are unable to do so, we speak up for the right to bodily autonomy and our agency, and we speak up for our opinions. We may seem passive but I believe that we are anything but.

There is such a beautiful dichotomy that lies within us. Most of us strive for change and progress, yet we are unsure of our own change and our own progress. We are unsure of our decisions and uncertain of the paths that we walk. A step forward and a step backward that exist in the same liminal space. A space that we occupy both fully and not at all. I believe that our generation can indeed make a difference, the same way others did before us. But I also believe that this change is urgent and must be imminent, for our generation, and for those to come. I am not sure if this is a brave declaration or a cry for help, nevertheless, I allow it to exist in my liminal space.

The new silk of our hot air balloon is fantastic, its red and white stripes soar through the air and we luckily arrived in Florence with just a few hours to spare before the play despite our rather turbulent detour in Aldeburgh. As we arrived in the grand Italian city—one that I had previously visited when I was fourteen-years-old—I reminisced about how I had spent the summer studying a Latin course at Università di Firenze along with some classes on 18th-century medical advancements and anatomical wax models, otherwise known as ‘anatomical Venuses’. These delicate and intricate wax figures created by artists who worked closely with scientists allowed medical students to learn about human anatomy, seeing as dissections on human bodies in theatres seldom occurred. I was rather apprehensive about the weather with Summer creeping upon our doorstep and given the usual crowded nature of Florence, yet, we were lucky enough to bathe within the remnants of a Spring breeze that carried hints of espresso and old parchment.

For the few hours we had in Florence before the play, we visited the majestic Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore made of white, pink and green serpentine Prato marble polychrome panels. It was only a quarter of the way through the 463 steps to the top of the duomo that Mr. Buttons appeared to come to the realisation that he may have been lacking in terms of exercise and that his small legs are not as young as they used to be. Instead of facing the embarrassment of asking me for a lift—which I would’ve happily offered—he told me that he preferred taking his time to peer through the small holes resembling arrow slits in the cold, damp walls to admire the view which, at that height, was not yet very impressive. A lie I saw right through yet I chose to humour him so as to preserve his dignity, as we both slowly made our way up. You may have noticed through my letters that my companion is quite the distinguished fellow. Once there, our breaths fell short, not because of the tiring stairs—well, perhaps it was in fact also cause for Bartholomew’s breathlessness—but simply because of the sheer beauty of the panoramic view. The labyrinth of terracotta roofs made me want to jump off the duomo and hop my way through the city with a bird’s eye view, though I believe Mr. Buttons would be rather reluctant given his state. After climbing the duomo, we walked to a mystical stationery shop that possessed a rather medieval quality to it. It resembled a savant’s old workshop that could have belonged to Nicolas Flamel himself, in fact, it somewhat reminded me of Jack Dubois’ crooked house that seemed to belong to a different century. The smell of parchment and candle wax was entangling and I was carried from shelf to shelf in spite of myself, admiring and feeling the various leather-bound notebooks, papers, fountain pens, and inks. I purchased a small leather-bound notebook with the words ‘Carpe diem’ embossed in gold foil.

A photograph of said notebook, lying on a wooden table in the shop.

Later, after meandering through some bustling markets, we wandered through the Galleria degli Uffizi where we became absolutely spellbound by Botticelli’s Primavera and La Nascita di Venere. It appeared as though the paintings had cast a spell that enchanted us and we both sat in front of them for more minutes than we could count. So much so that it was between the 16th- and 17th-century wings that we realised that if we did not hurry, we would miss the play! A dire fate we simply could not accept. As we hastily left the gallery and began running towards our destination, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Mr. Buttons was falling behind. At this time, I was more concerned about losing my small companion in the crowded streets of Florence than bruising his ego. Without a word, I picked him up and slid him into my worn leather satchel. In spite of his small disgruntled protests, he seemed rather relieved. The sun had begun retiring with coral hues and the sky had turned a velvety indigo as we reached the street that Bartholomew had indicated as he minutely observed a map in my bag with his monocle-wearing eye. We took a turn into a small alley, the entrance of which was hidden by worn and torn red velvet curtains. It was in this moment that I remembered that the mice’s audience may not be accustomed to humans. I had to simply lift my feet to go over the small twig that acted as a curtain rod wedged between the two narrow brick walls of the alley, while Mr. Buttons went through as one should.

As we—or rather I; Mr. Buttons seemed unruffled, after all he does have an elaborate web of mice acquaintances scattered over Europe—stepped into this miniature world, we heard tiny whispers and the small desk lamp that was operated by a rat—he was significantly larger than the audience who seemed absolutely minuscule compared to the light—began to dim. Simultaneously, another light, also operated by a rat technician, blossomed into a small circle on stage. I sat on the cold stone ground without making a sound behind several rows of dollhouse chairs occupied by a positively giddy audience, Bartholomew by my side. The play was exquisite! Antonio’s rendition of Hamlet was absolutely brilliant and I may have even shed a tear during his soliloquy. Leonardo’s hauntingly quiet presence as Hamlet’s father’s ghost was rather magnificent. The staging and costumes were fantastic and ingenious. Antonio, during the gravedigger scene or Act V, Scene I if memory serves, held a small carved pebble as a makeshift skull. Some mice wore thimbles as helmets and had sewing needles as swords, while Leonardo wore a ghostly cloak made of a small piece of lace. As the play ended and my clapping echoed louder against the walls than any other in the assembly, a small but united gasp was uttered as the mice jumped from their seats. All eyes were now set on Bartholomew and I as our presence no longer went unnoticed. Mr. Buttons began calmly explaining that we meant no harm and as he heard his voice behind the stage curtain, Antonio burst out, his arms wide open ‘Bartholomew! My old friend! You came!’ he yelled as he stepped off stage, with a thick Italian accent—one I did not perceive as much during the play, surely a testament to his acting ability.

As my companion began to approach to return the warm welcome, the atmosphere in the small outdoor theatre shifted. Suddenly, a raspy and cynical purr emerged from the shadows as a meagre figure with a torn ear and patches of missing fur began to appear at the top of the brick wall. ‘Bravissimo…’ he almost hissed, ‘What a soporific melodrama.’ Bartholomew’s tail stiffened and his whole body arched—a sight I had never witnessed before and one so unlike him—‘Giuseppe…’ he whispered with a slight tremble in his voice, a tremor stained of ire. At the sound of this name, I recalled something Bartholomew had shared with me as we both reminisced about our time in Florence. During his own time in Firenze when he was younger, Mr. Buttons met Giuseppe, a rather heedless and impulsive, yet intellectual alley cat with whom he had become friends. One evening, as they roamed the streets of Florence after having had a few glasses of Italian liquor and one or two cigars with the neighbourhood cats, they searched for a place to sleep. As they scoured one alley at twilight, Mr. Buttons came across an old leather book that had seemingly been thrown out. Yet, upon further observation, he found out that this was a first edition of Odi Barbare—a poetry collection—by Giosuè Carducci from 1877! He was thrilled by this discovery, but before he could even utter a single word, the mischievous and quick thinking Giuseppe decided that it would make for excellent bedding. He shoved Bartholomew and snatched the book which he began to shred and make his own. The young Mr. Buttons, furious, never forgave him for ruining such a glorious relic. Furthermore, Mr. Buttons had gotten word from his correspondence with Antonio that Giuseppe had become more and more reckless and dangerous as he grew older, rallying against the mice community of Florence with the other alley cats. This was no longer a personal feud, the safety of Antonio, Leonardo, the theatre troupe, and their faithful audience was at stake!

But before I could even think of scooping all of them and shoving them into my satchel as I previously did for Mr. Buttons; the actors—still in their thimble helmets and capes—tossed the surplus of sewing needles that rested in their worn-out box to the crowd. In an instant, they had all gathered into a small army, the fierce rats growling on the front lines. The scene was unfolding like one of Shakespeare’s plays, and I found myself standing next to Bartholomew in a millisecond, acting as a fortress for the small but mighty army that had formed, led by Antonio naturally. It was not until I heard the narrow and spluttering sound of a small toy trumpet being played by one of the mice that I realised that they had allies. In what seemed like mere seconds, a flock of crows, pigeons, starlings, and sparrows made a staggering appearance that propelled the dust of the alley against the walls and made the mice army wobble. What a strange alliance, I thought to myself—birds and mice. I later learned that the local birds that inhabit Florence’s roofs were getting tired of the oppressive regime the feral cats had established in the neighbourhood—terrifying the youth and chasing any bird that had the misfortune of landing near a cat—it could no longer be tolerated. I will say, I have met nicer cats in my time, this seems like a rather isolated situation.

It was the first time since his arrival that Giuseppe’s look seemed faintly invaded by fear, however, he was no longer alone. In the few minutes it took for these theatricals to unfold, a few more worn-out but agile shadowy figures had joined him. I could sense Mr. Buttons’ electrified fur trembling ever so slightly against my right leg, yet he remained immovable. This confrontation lasted for a few minutes that felt like an eternity and it seemed that I held my breath for the entirety of it—well perhaps I did because I once participated in an apnea competition against a loggerhead sea turtle; of course I had no chance of winning seeing as they can hold their breath for as long as 610 minutes, but I came in as a close second with my best time yet: 30 minutes! I digress, finally the cats dissipated and Giuseppe gave Bartholomew one last hiss and faded back into the obscurity. As this standoff came to an end, everyone let out a sigh of relief and Mr. Buttons shook off his threatening demeanour to return to his familiar dignified attitude. The larger birds departed but a few small sparrows stayed behind and celebrated alongside the rats and mice. I made myself scarce so as not to frighten anyone by my presence but they seemed to understand that I was a friend—some of them even waved or threw a candid ‘Ciao!’ in my direction. At last, I finally met Antonio who seemed delighted in my presence. We discussed the play as well as the neighbourhood tensions—Antonio was convinced that after this show of force, the cats would not be so keen as to try anything—still, he will keep Mr. Buttons in the loop through their correspondence.

Our rather eventful and thrilling time in Florence comes to an end, and our final stop before returning to the United Kingdom awaits us. Paris! A city I know like the back of my hand for my parents have always been very much in love with it. I am particularly excited to go back seeing as Mr. Buttons tells me he has yet another mouse friend there; Gustave.

I will write to you once our balloon reaches the Eiffel Tower.

Your friend,

Matilda Hawthorn

Ever since I was around twelve-years-old, I uncovered that my mind took the shape of an infinite, endless, never-ending library. An ancient inner sanctum where my thoughts, words, sensations, and memories were kept neatly in dusty books and wooden drawers. I have always been a very visual person; my brain furnished me with the ability to see an ancient manuscript or scroll unfold before me with all of my thoughts fully written out and a visual representation of me searching through my infinite library for the right words and information at the same time.

My library is grand and seemingly boundless, only expanding as time passes. There are wooden floors that waver and creak and smell of amber, a slight breeze that travels through the wings of my mind palace, and shelves that appear to be eternal. Hauntingly quiet, yet not in a way that feels unfamiliar to me, but rather comforting. My library is never idle, my scroll is endlessly unfolding and I am endlessly rummaging. A vast labyrinth I know like the back of my hand and one that knows me too. If in need of refuge, I retire to an alcove encapsulated in a decorated Gothic stained glass window, through which peers a hazy, soft yellow light that leaves flecks of coloured fragments on the floor.

My library is eternally illuminated, even at night, I search by candlelight and my manuscript only quiets a few hours a night, if I am lucky. As the night grows dark, my librarian self searches for knowledge and visits forgotten, dusty wings, often ones I wish would remain lost. Memories contained in books I wish I could ignore, resting on shelves that even the rolling ladder cannot reach. Like a medieval palimpsest, a text I have tried to scratch away that keeps bleeding through. Unfortunately, my evening librarian is somewhat morbidly curious, desperately intrigued and seemingly relishes in causing me torment. When the night grows dark and silent, the librarian seeks out the tender aches of my childhood and adolescence. My unstable foundations that dig a knife into my open wounds again. I am like a bird without wings. Turning my sanctuary into a vault that slowly collapses beneath the weight of my own history.

On some nights, in one of the corners of this crowded yet lonely vault, I find a small girl curled up into a ball, a sack of shivering bones, sobbing and unable to catch her breath—my first anxiety attacks. I am then forced to return to the ones in the school restroom, the ones in the corner of recess, the ones that cruelly lulled me to sleep. The haunting feeling of my imminent death as my head throbbed as if being rhythmically pounded into a wall. My eyes refusing to close, I must crawl and gouge my way out each night only to get a taste of this velvety night, finally. My library becomes uncomfortable and I am thus a stranger in my own mind until the churning sea quiets.

My evening librarian is cunning, regularly recycling the thoughts that I desperately try to ignore before the day falls—questions that I despise but that inhabit every second of every one of my days: Am I intelligent enough? Am I too sensitive because I feel the world so deeply? Is my writing not good enough, and therefore am I not good enough despite the fact that it is the most profound reflection of who I am?

II- The anatomy

Although born and raised in Paris, my British heritage has taken over my person. I was raised to be bilingual but now, English transmitted by my mother has in fact become my mother tongue. I am programmed this way and the sepia ink that stains my parchment is too. I do not yet live in my topographical landscape where I believe I was meant to be, I must thus endure a society I do not belong to and a language that is not the one that flows through my veins. A split-second translation occurs when I speak French for my words come not in this language but in the one my heart is wrapped in.

French can often feel sharp and clinical—perhaps the only form of French that touches my heart is Hugo’s, Baudelaire’s, or Lamartine’s poetry or La Nuit des Temps written by René Barjavel, my favourite French novel. Perhaps it is my favourite French novel because I myself feel like a creature from an ancient frozen world, perhaps I was meant never to be excavated. While it feels uncomfortable, I still have the keys to this language’s most beautiful rooms. English on the other hand, is akin to a warm cottage, softly lit with candles in the midst of winter, ensnared with the smell of cinnamon. A warm but complex DNA structure, its roots intertwined with runic encryptions and ancient 7th-century literature. A place I have found comfort and identity in since I could hear my mother’s gentle voice through the wall of her womb. The language that cradled me, lulled me to sleep, taught me, shaped me, and crafted the person I am becoming.

English is the language that built my writer’s identity. I genuinely question if I could be able to write in French as I do in English, through which I reach a deep state of catharsis each time my ink infuses the paper. French does not allow me to explore myself as English does, to venture into the darkest parts of my library, to lose myself entirely to my words, the ones that feel ancient and as if belonging to a different life. It is the language I bleed through, its words cutting deep into my flesh.

III- The nervous system

My library moves with the seasons, as do I. I am deeply in tune with nature and the changing seasons. Born on the Autumn Equinox, my favourite season and the one I feel most myself in. It lingers in my head and whispers its soft words to me as the transparent souls in cemeteries do. In my library, I collect sensations, memories, emotions, and knowledge. Whole drawers have become filled with the intoxicating scent of petrichor, crisp autumn air, conkers and pinecones, auburn, golden, and chestnut leaves that crackle and smell of wood inhabit my library.

Spring is purgatory for I know what awaits me: my own personal hell—Summer. The bane of my existence. As an autistic person, my sensations are heightened, leading to excruciating overstimulation, physical and emotional exhaustion; the ‘simple’ act of existing becomes highly painful. I am like a bug being crushed under the weight of a cruel child’s foot. While the city outside succumbs to a stagnant, imposing summer—a sensory invasion—my library thus becomes my sanctuary, visually becoming cold, darker, even more silent. A cryochamber where a breeze constantly flows and where I needn’t worry about my blood boiling, my sweltering skin feeling scorching, and like I should be peeling it off the same way one would an orange.

I relish in the rain, often hearing its pattering on the windows and soaring ceilings of my library. I often smell petrichor distilled with bibliosmia as I wander through the lined bookshelves. In winter, I know my library is covered in snow while old Christmas carols play softly on the record player, and a sublime Christmas tree stands, grand, proud, and tall, bathing my books in a warm yellow light. If in need of quietness, I seek out the sensations that anchor me, neatly kept in wooden drawers. The scent of my father’s scarves when I was a child, the sound of stepping on a dried Autumn leaf, the smell of flipping through an old book and the crackling pages between my fingers, the sensation of the side of my palm against the paper when I write, the scent of my home in December, pinecones and fir in early Autumn, English breakfast tea—the steam gently rising to my face as I open the drawer—, the sound of my cat’s purr.

IV- Epilogue

My mind palace, my mental architecture, my mental library—my mind—is a sanctuary I have carefully crafted both consciously and subconsciously. It can be both a cage and a safe haven, but most of all, it is the place where all of my thoughts unfold knowing no bounds and where my emotions roam free and unseen by the outside world. It is where I can be most myself without the constant fear of being perceived, a spectre that has chased me relentlessly for as long as I can remember. An infinite library that resides in a finite body.

I feel as though I am wasting time;

Immobile.

As my words drain from my bones these past days,

I am at a loss.

The time meant for my writing seems replaced,

And wasted by an absent stare at a blank page.

I am in a pressure cooker,

My words evaporating like steam.

I dwell,

Condemned to watch the droplets of water race against the walls of the boiling pot;

The same way I did when raindrops were propelled against the car window—

I still do.

The paranoia that I may never find my words within the marrow of my bones

Haunts me.

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I apologise for the absence of my column in The Old Town Gazette for this past week. I wish I could say that it was due to my losing of my favourite fountain pen—although I doubt that would be possible for I never misplace it, that would be outrageous—however, I am afraid that we have endured something much more calamitous… You may remember that at the end of my last letter, my hot air balloon seemed to be exhaling its last breaths as it precariously carried us, hopelessly, to the destination that may resolve our troubles. Mr. Buttons and I put our trust entirely in the panting wind of the approaching Suffolk Coast and the safety of our basket.

As we neared our destination, I noticed that the balloon was struggling to hold altitude. Immediately I knew that the sweet morning zephyrs would not be enough to allow for a quiet landing. After mere seconds of uncertainty—which felt eternal—the breath of the balloon gave out, silence…then ensued a loud thud, followed by the clatter of the stones of a shingle beach. As we dropped in utter silence, Mr. Buttons ran to my arms and we both braced for impact as the burner extinguished itself at once. The fissure I had found in the balloon’s silk after landing in Cambridge had completely eviscerated my beast. After a few moments of desperation as we gathered ourselves and slowly abandoned the embrace of one of the corners of the basket, ‘Huzzah!’ I shouted, slightly startling Bartholomew who was still recovering from his emotions; his fur still standing up on its own due to the static of the silk. Something I could not help but giggle about. After these disorienting minutes, I had just realised, despite the fact that it was indeed our destination, that we had actually reached Aldeburgh relatively safe and sound. We did not land in the cold Atlantic or miles away from our destination per my previous fears. I recognised the shingle beach of Aldeburgh we had just miraculously appeared on that my parents had described, and the colourful houses that stood as the backdrop to this relieving sight. The smell of the salty sea air that whistled in my ears and the gentle flapping of the seagull’s wings was music to my ears. Aldeburgh is where this now mangled silk had previously been sourced by my parents from a mysterious collector and expert in aeronautics. The trouble now, would be to find him.

From the wreckage, I pulled a woven label from the torn silk with a cryptic symbol on it. I recognised it immediately and frantically began flipping through the pages of my commonplace book, Mr. Buttons eagerly waiting at my side for he had noticed the idea that mustered and spun behind my eyes. ‘Yes, yes! There it is!’ I exclaimed. While in Cambridge, you may remember that I had found a rare 19th-century book on ornithopters and I had made a precise sketch of a symbol that had been drawn by someone in the margin in a striking arterial red ink. A man with mechanical wings, the same one that had been sewn with red thread on the label of the silk. I looked at my companion with a smug smile hanging from the corner of my lips ‘Well detective Buttons, I believe we have ourselves a clue.’ and with the same look—one that distilled his grumpy demeanour as he shook off the static from his fur—Bartholomew answered ‘I believe we do, detective Hawthorn.’ Thus, with a renewed sense of purpose and urgency—the play in Florence was only in a few days—we headed into town in an attempt to find this mysterious collector. Mr. Buttons took out his pipe and we both could not help but imitate Sherlock Holmes as we scribbled on small notepads, making observations and walking through our mind palaces—or rather our ‘brain attics’, as Holmes so aptly described in A Study in Scarlet.

After a few hours of investigating and roaming the streets of Aldeburgh, we decided to stop at the local pub to gather our strength and discuss our findings, which admittedly, were somewhat non-existent at this time. At least we thought so until, as we meticulously observed every person in the pub for clues, we finally spotted a potential suspect. A tall man with a slender and crooked frame, dressed entirely in black with an old doctor’s bag, a long black coat, a black scarf that covered half of his face, and a hat that only allowed for his eyes to be visible as he gave a final tapered look back before suspiciously exiting the pub. It seemed like the last thing he wanted was to be noticed, unfortunately for him, as everyone seemed to ignore his presence, he became the center of our attention. One look sufficed between my partner and I and we swiftly exited the pub ourselves and began following him. He appeared to be looking over his shoulder at every turn which made our hunt difficult. We had to resort to hiding each time we expected him to turn his head. Of course this was easier for Mr. Buttons considering his size, he even mocked me when I tried to fit behind a bush; surely revenge for my own mocking of his electrified fur earlier that day.

On the far edge of town, the man finally led us to an isolated four-storey house that was thin, slightly crooked and painted black—in fact, it resembled him. It seemed like at any given moment, a strong gust of wind could cause the whole structure to unravel. We waited a moment as we stood behind nearby bushes and bramble. Mr. Buttons finally convinced me that I should knock. ‘My dear, I would gladly do it but you must know how odd it is for a talking cat to knock at one’s door.’ he said with a coy smile; I personally did not really see how that could be seen as problematic. As I slowly made my way to the front door, I was petrified, my back turned cold and my hands began to shake. Who on earth was I going to be met with, I wondered. I lay my knuckles on the door three faint times. A few seconds later, my heart dropped to my stomach.

It was Jack Dubois! A daredevil savant who lived in the early 20th-century involved in all kinds of experiments, yet his most famous were the ones relating to flight. He was ensnared with the idea of flying and after an extensive study of bird anatomy, he had created one of the most intricate and sophisticated ornithopters. He was said to have disappeared above the Atlantic on his first flight in 1928, leaving no trace behind and thus presumed dead. His theory relied on the idea of rhythm, more precisely that of the heart; aligning the movement of the wings with the rhythmic pounding in his chest cavity. I could not believe my eyes seeing as he did not look a day over fifty-years-old, he should be well over a century-old! He stared at me with a strange look with a slight taste of disdain, perhaps confused by my silence and slightly gaping mouth; I was rather shocked after all. It is not every day you come across a literal living legend. Mr. Buttons, who was sat at my feet, gently tugged on the folded end of my brown corduroy trousers and I finally attempted to collect myself. ‘Apologies for my rudeness sir, would you happen to be Jack Dubois?’ I uttered shyly. In a very rugged voice, as if he had not spoken in years, he muttered something that resembled not interested and began shutting the door. I lay my hand softly on the wood, gently pushing back, and began explaining that he was quite the legend in my family, where the knowledge of aeronautics has been passed down from generation to generation, and well, I also happened to be in a bit of a pickle. He looked at me and lifted an eyebrow and muttered something in his beard that sounded more like a grunt than come in as he turned around and waved for me to come inside. He did not even seem to notice Mr. Buttons who followed quietly in my footsteps.

The house was filled with strange contraptions from the late 19th and early 20th-centuries and an ornithopter—the one he had crafted—was suspended from the ceiling, its wings spread, almost like a prehistoric bird preserved in amber. Some cracking swing jazz was faintly playing on a large gramophone. Like his house, he was crooked himself, his long coat trailed on the ground on his left side, gathering dust as he walked away from the entrance. The house was rather dark yet it was only two in the afternoon, but there were so many things—books, mugs, some half-empty, some tea-stained, a stack of records, a microscope—that obstructed the pearly grey, seaside light. With another wave of his hand, he invited us to sit down on a rather ragged but comfortable couch and very clumsily poured me a cup of over-infused black tea. Mr. Buttons remained quiet for now, unsure of how well-received a talking cat would be. He sat down slowly, his shoulders misaligned, and asked why I was here. I was hesitant to answer but responded with the truth of our situation and how I believed he may be the person we had been looking for. I wondered if he would be in the capacity to furnish me with a new silk. He looked at me with that same look of confusion again and said that I reminded him of someone. I suggested that my parents may have visited him about ten years ago. His eyes lit up ‘Well of course! The Hawthorn’s girl! Matilda, isn’t it?’ I agreed and with that, his gaze softened and his face let the faint stain of a smile appear. ‘I have exactly what you need, wait here!’ he said as he scurried away excitedly, still crooked. When he came back from one of the upper floors, he held within his arms, a large, overflowing piece of fabric with the loveliest, vibrant red and white stripes, akin to that of a circus tent, which I found to be rather endearing. ‘It’s perfect Mr. Dubois, what do I owe you?’ to which he answered ‘Oh nothing my dear girl, your parents are old friends, no need for the formality.’

As we sat back down, I felt the question—well, more of an urge rather than a question—rising from my chest to my throat, my curiosity burned the tip of my tongue. ‘I do not wish to be indiscreet but most of the world thinks that you died in 1928… yet here you are, and you do not even look a day over fifty!’ I exclaimed. He pushed out a small laugh followed by a sharp cough and explained that he did not crash as most people think, his theory worked. He flew for hours on end and when he finally landed here on a warm June evening, he simply decided to disappear and work on his true fascination, only to return later to society to reveal himself and his invention: an elixir that has kept him alive for more than a century. I could not understand the appeal of wanting such a thing, does the beauty of life not lie in its futility? I asked why one would want such a thing and he replied candidly ‘Oh just for fun!’ It was at that moment that Mr. Buttons felt it appropriate to let slip a small exclamation for he thought Dubois’ idea was simply brilliant. Dubois let out a small yell, startled by what had seemed like an ordinary cat until now. ‘Oh yes, this is my travelling companion, Mr. Buttons.’ ‘What an honour it is to meet you Mr. Dubois.’ said Bartholomew reaching out his paw to shake Dubois’ hand, who remained utterly dumbfounded for the minutes that followed. Yet, both still happily discussed the Vitalist theories of his time—the idea that life is not just chemical, but rather a spark or a rhythm—which seemed to be the origin of his theory of flight as he explained when Mr. Buttons and I inquired.

It was getting dark and I thought it best to head back to the balloon in view of our pressing schedule and the long journey ahead to Florence. Dubois, Mr. Buttons, and I headed down to the shingle beach where my beast lay still as a washed up whale, the torn skin billowing and ebbing to the wind’s desire. As the sun set, we spent the evening attaching the new silk and as the silence began to reign over this scene, a surge of wonder pushed out another much anticipated interrogation. I opened my commonplace book and showed Dubois the sketch of the mysterious marginalia. ‘Did you draw this Mr. Dubois? I first found it in one of the libraries in Cambridge, I noticed the same symbol woven into the label of the old skin in red thread, and again etched into the black wood above the doorway of your house.’ ‘Ah yes that is indeed my mark, a mechanical Icarus if you will. A trace I leave behind for the few who know of my existence.’ It seemed that he had said enough, I did not inquire any further. As we finished our meticulous work, we both thanked him. He now possessed a much softer look in his eye when looking at me, yet he still seemed rather disturbed when he bent down to shake Mr. Buttons’ paw.

As we lifted off in our flying circus, he waved us goodbye and I set a long course to Florence where we were awaited in about five days. We are currently flying over France where we might have to take a detour to Paris before heading back to the United Kingdom, for Mr. Buttons may have someone else he wants me to meet. In the meantime, we are both reading Hamlet yet again only to get a refreshing taste of it before the play. Summer will soon be upon us, we may have to seek refuge in the Scottish isles to escape the crushing heat. I sent word to my parents to tell them about my adventures but most of all, to ask why they did not tell me about Dubois’ existence. To which they answered that they wished for me to unravel the mystery on my own time, I am happy to report that this mystery is indeed solved!

I will write once more once I have witnessed the, I am sure, prodigious theatre company of Leonardo and Antonio, the Florentine mice.

Your friend,

Matilda Hawthorn

We arrived in Cambridge after a tumultuous journey, it was exceptionally windy and after landing in the countryside near the city, I meticulously inspected our vessel. My only concern was that the silk was becoming too porous and had grown weary. I informed Mr. Buttons—who was carefully inspecting the vehicle himself with his small magnifying glass—that we might have to make a stop near the Suffolk Coast to shop for a new skin before we head anywhere else. My parents last sourced this silk from a town named Aldeburgh, a name I found in their logbooks. Mr. Buttons acquiesced and we began walking into the city.

On our way, I began recounting that my parents had actually met in Cambridge; my father came from London to study Archeology, History, and Classics, while my mother came from Edinburgh to study English Literature and Botany. Mr. Buttons listened attentively as I went on to talk about my time spent studying English Literature there until I went on to complete my studies in Edinburgh where I also got my job at the The Old Town Gazette. As we approached the centre of the city, we decided that we would go our separate ways for a day. I had plans to go to the Wren Library at Trinity College in order to study medieval manuscripts and forage through the personal papers of 19th-century poets, and perhaps late 19th and early 20th-century aeronautics. I had also planned on making my way to the Pepys Library at Magdalene College to examine the correspondence of 18th and 19th-century women authors. Mr. Buttons on the other hand, had planned on sneaking into King’s College as he had done in the past to attend Classics and History lectures. In addition, he had planned on going to Corpus Christi College to sneak around and rummage through the shelves of the Parker Library to research ancient history. In other words, we had very busy schedules. We decided to reconvene over earl grey and gin around 5 p.m at The Eagle—a 16th-century tavern near King’s College, where Francis Crick and James Watson celebrated the discovery of the structure of DNA in 1953; fascinating!

A Gothic window sheltered from the sun

For the day, I swayed between a scholarly state and that of an observer. The air was light but infused with the smell of newly bloomed flowers and pollen invaded the wind. I vagabonded from library to library, periodically sitting on benches or the bosom of large, gnarled, ancient roots of weeping willows—my favourite tree—where I wrote poetry, read, and contemplated the beauty that surrounded me. It was a sunny, slightly hazy spring day. The light seeped through the tentacles of the weeping willow that sits on the edge of the river near King’s College, and hit my freckled face as I rested my eyes, cradled by the roots of the tree. My favourite spot was admittedly the bench that sat beneath a softly swaying willow tree close to the Wren Library. I spent much of my time taking notes and photographs on my film camera, and marking observations and what I was learning about in my commonplace notebook. I was particularly curious about this rare late 19th-century book on ornithopters that carried strange marginalia. While on the hunt for books on aeronautics—I had planned on sending some of my notes to my parents—I stumbled upon this strange inscription in red ink of a man with mechanical wings. It seemed old, as old as the book itself, the ink was slightly worn out but it was a striking, arterial red, as if the pen had been dipped directly in this mystery writer’s blood. I unfortunately did not find any answers to this curious enigma, but I did my best to attentively sketch it in my notebook. I was intrigued by this oddity and I longed to excavate its secrets a while longer but I refused to be late to meet Mr. Buttons, whose day I was very excited to hear about.

A weeping willow on the edge of the river

I arrived slightly early at the pub and sat a table while I waited for my companion. The floors were ancient, footsteps lay heavy on the uneven creaking of the wood, like waves. It was quiet and obstreperous at the same time, I could not help but focus on every single detail of the scene that was unfolding before my eyes; the faint scent of beer intertwined with the smell of newly lit candles, the rugged table under my palms, adorned with circle-shaped stains, the humidity of the wooden floors infused with beer and the warmth of the air. I was so captivated, as if I had been transported in time, so much so that I did not notice straight away that Bartholomew had sat down across from me as he gently greeted me, thus releasing me from my reverie. I ordered an earl grey tea and a glass of Hendrick’s gin for Mr. Buttons, and as soon as I sat back down with our drinks, we immediately began recounting our findings to one another, like two mad scholars who could not get their words out quicker than their thoughts.

With my hands cupping my face as I listened acutely, Mr. Buttons told me about the fascinating lectures he had attended. He snuck into a lecture on Ciceronian rhetoric and the periodic sentence, which focused on how Cicero—one of Rome’s greatest orators—built sentences using ‘clausulae’ meaning rhythmic endings in order to hypnotise his audience. Bartholomew remarked that these rhythmic endings reminded him of the steady pulse of the balloon’s burner that often lulls him to sleep on our travels. Later, as he walked through the campus and visited Newton’s Tree, he attended a lecture on the topography of Imperial Rome with a study of the Res Gestae, specifically how Augustus transformed the city from brick to marble. Half-way through listening, I realised that I had been so attentive to his rambling that I had begun to leave my tea grow cold, a mistake I hastened to correct, thus letting a few drops fall on my notebook where I had been gathering some notes on these fascinating subjects. ‘Well my dear Matilda, did the libraries yield their secrets?’ he asked, visibly giddy at the thought of hearing about what I had found. I proceeded to read to him the poetry I had written while being bathed in sunlight beneath the weeping willow, or wandering through the fractured paths of cemeteries—places that, despite their decay and unruliness, offer me a strange sort of peace—and the knowledge I had acquired along with the strange marginalia I had encountered. Mr. Buttons was as intrigued as I was and could not help but observe my sketch with his small magnifying glass which he keeps in the inside pocket of his tweed waistcoat. One never knows when further observation might be necessary! A statement we fervently agreed on upon our meeting a few weeks ago as we realised we both kept our magnifying glasses in our inside pockets. Yet, we remained without answer to this strange inscription.

The Wren Library

As the day grew dark, we decided to return to the balloon. As we took off, I noticed the strange groaning that my old beast was exhaling. I realised that our detour to the Suffolk Coast could not wait any longer if we wanted to avoid a rather turbulent landing. I rummaged through my archives and found a map of the area we were in and the directions to Aldeburgh that my parents had mapped out years ago, and set a course. As our vessel laboured to gain altitude and began whistling, Mr. Buttons saw a pigeon approach. He perched himself on the edge of the basket and introduced himself with these words ‘Hello there! Hugo the postal pigeon, at your service; here to deliver a letter for Mr. Buttons.’ He laid the letter in Bartholomew’s paws and took off immediately after saluting us. It was from Antonio—a Florentine mouse who is part of a theatre troupe—a slightly dramatic but brilliant actor Mr. Buttons had told me about. He was informing Mr. Buttons that he and Leonardo—the pragmatic and organised leader of the troupe—are putting on Hamlet and he claims that he cannot go on without Bartholomew sitting in the front row. It was a minuscule envelope made of gorgeous, thick, almost ancient manuscript-like Italian paper; sealed with a burgundy wax seal in the shape of a drop of blood, surely a testament to Antonio’s dramatic flair. Mr. Buttons asked me what my thoughts were on a spontaneous, grand detour to Florence, after our stop to repair the balloon of course. I was ecstatic for I had only been to Florence once when I was fourteen and adored it. Furthermore, I could not be more excited to see both the mice’s theatre company and Hamlet, my favourite play!

The balloon is starting to wheeze louder as it breathes against the growing wind as I am writing this. I hope the wind will carry us where we need to go. I am afraid that our landing might be slightly more bumpy that what I had anticipated. I will write again once we have hopefully landed safely.

Your friend,

Matilda Hawthorn

We arrived in Cornwall and these last few days have been a whirlwind! We landed near Land’s End or the edge of the world as I like to call it. We walked for what seemed like an eternity simply wandering along the edges of the cliffs. My hair pushed from my face by the incessant wind. Our silence was a testimony to the sublime nature enveloping us. The air was thick and infused with sea salt, and the windswept cliffs reminded me of my parents’ home in the Scottish Highlands, to whom I wrote a letter in a moment of nostalgia and bittersweet sadness while sitting on a patch of grass, cradled by wildflowers. I am finally on the adventure that I have so longed for yet, I cannot help but miss the smell of my father’s tartan scarves and the leatheriness and floral notes of my mother’s perfume, and the smell of wood and cinnamon of my creaking Edinburgh flat.

Mr. Buttons, occupied by his own thoughts and observations about the beauty that surrounded us—I could hear him whispering to himself and pacing around me—seemed to have noticed the slight glimmer in my eye and the small tears that smudged my words. In an attempt to comfort me, he suggested that we go on an investigation to see if we could recognise and find the flowers that my mother had pressed from our trip to Cornwall fifteen years ago and sent in her last letter. I could not reach for my magnifying glass quickly enough! We were rather successful and after some careful searching, we found some Sea carrot, Spring squill, English stonecrop, and Sheep’s-bit; all four species my mother had sent. I carefully picked a few of each and added them to my flower press. I am planning on sending back a few to my mother in my next letter.

The edge of the world.

Later, we sat on a bench with a view of the sea over a vertiginous cliff to read poetry of course, share our thoughts about this extraordinary place, and have a bite. I had packed some baked beans and my favourite spoon, and a can of tuna for Mr. Buttons. I was nose deep in my anthology of Whitman poetry which almost feels like a bible in my hands—the paper is thick and heavy with the weight of his words. And Mr. Buttons was still flipping through his volume of Keats’ poetry, carefully making notes in the margin; an act I must admit to disagreeing with. When all of a sudden, an old man appeared in front of us. He looked like an old Darwin-esque savant with a long white beard, the overcast light peering through gave it a lace-like appearance. Slightly hunched over and carrying a worn out, leather satchel, seemingly overflowing with books, much like my own. He appeared intrigued by this unusual sight of a cat reading, yet calm and unsurprised. I could not help but be utterly fascinated by this captivating character who seemed to have stepped out of the sea, or a book. This was perhaps the only thing in this moment that could have made me stick my cold, red nose out of my book.

He greeted us and Mr. Buttons finally looked up as well, he seemed as intrigued by this persona as I was. The man looked down at my book, now half closed on my lap thus making the cover visible. He began reciting ‘O Captain! My Captain!’, my favourite poem by Whitman, how could he have known I wonder… His tone was deeply melancholic and his delivery exactly as the poem intended, solemn, soft and whispery, his pace aligned with the rhythmic crashing of the waves and the roar of the Atlantic. I must admit that it immediately brought tears to my eyes.

After this otherworldly moment that seemed out of time, he introduced himself—his name is Enedoch and he lives in a small cottage nearby. I dared not ask his age but he seemed ancient, as if he had lived a thousand lives, a sensation akin to my own. He invited us for tea, an invitation we simply could not refuse seeing as the cold air had began seeping through our skin. I had to pull out a thick scarf out of my bag for Mr. Buttons. I suppose he is accustomed to the wind, after all he is Scottish but he is still a wee fellow.

Arrived at the cottage, I was enthralled when I saw the sheer amount of books that were spilling out of his bookshelves and scattered on tables, chairs... Some were even piled on the floor, and some looked to be almost thousands of years old! I was ensnared by the smell of old paper and books, old leather, ink, and steaming earl grey tea; Enedoch had started preparing it and as I looked up, Mr. Buttons was sitting on the counter next to him, already discussing Joyce and his short story ‘The Dead’. We delighted in our steaming cuppa, there is nothing like it, especially when paired with scones handmade by our new friend, jam, and Cornish clotted cream. The tea was served in a lovely porcelain tea set adorned with flowers, and poured with the utmost precision by our host.

Despite Spring being on the horizon, it was remarkably cold and windy—to my greatest pleasure—so Enedoch lit a small fire in the chimney, making his humble abode feel even warmer and inviting. The three of us spoke for hours and Enedoch never remarked on the fact that Bartholomew was a talking cat. He seemed to have chosen this life of solitude almost as a pursuit of wisdom and peace. Yet, he is not isolated and is a traveller himself but he affirmed that Cornwall is a place he cannot get away from, the waves reeling him in anytime he strays too far. He was fascinated by my skills as an aeronaut which I owe to my parents. I even showed him the ancient maps that we had collected over the years and I left one of England in his keeping. He held my hands for a few seconds, thanked me, and told me that he would make great use of it. As the day grew dark, I sat near the chimney to write in my diary about this splendid day, despite my morning melancholia, while Enedoch and Mr. Buttons both partook in a glass of Hendrick’s gin and cigars.

As we were getting ready to leave, he invited us to stay over for a few days so that he could take us to some of the landmarks of Cornwall. This list included the Minack Theatre—during this visit, I could not help but imagine scenes of Shakespeare being performed and I even caught myself quietly whispering Hamlet’s soliloquy which my companions did not seem to mind. Enedoch acted as our guide and also took us to The Lost Gardens of Heligan, a vast estate through which we walked all day, incessantly observing the many different species of trees and wildflowers and the bees, intermittently sitting down to read some poetry to one another or recite Shakespeare. Mr. Buttons also shared some Latin prose with us which was rather breathtaking.

Finally returning to Land’s End where my hot air balloon awaited, Mr. Buttons and I took our leave. Since then, we have started a correspondence with our new peculiar friend Enedoch. He let me know that he would love to read my column in the gazette so I have sent word to my dear editor, Agnes, in order for a copy to be sent straight to his cottage every week.

The salty air of Cornwall has been a tonic for the soul, but Mr. Buttons and I are beginning to crave some scholarly activities. We have thus set a course for Cambridge and we will be landing in two days time. How thrilling! I cannot wait to hear the whispers of the spires, roam the libraries, and I might even take a few photographs with my film camera; an heirloom from my grandfather. Mr. Buttons is exhilarated as well, although he is presently snoring with his face buried in my coat as I am writing this. I will write again once we have reached our destination.

Your friend,

Matilda Hawthorn

It seeps through my sinuses and permeates my blood vessels.

My soul feels rejuvenated; it seems like weeks have passed since it last rained, unlike the last time I cried.

The clouds are crying, yet the greyness of the atmosphere appeases my heart.

It is pouring now; occasional violent flashes of light traverse the lace curtain of my window, half-opened to let the smell flood my air.

My mind is quiet for the first time in days—is it ever quiet?

The wrath of the sky shakes the walls of my room and rains down on the world, my world; almost like a cleansing.

Hail has begun falling, now pounding my closed window.

Stronger every minute, perhaps the wind that turns the rain sideways will give me wings,

Let me fly away.

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You might have noticed that my weekly column in The Old Town Gazette had disappeared for the past three weeks. You must’ve been worried sick! Perhaps you thought I had been kidnapped by a herd of hat-wearing penguins, or lost my favourite fountain pen, which would be equally as disastrous. Well thankfully, it was neither of those things, I have just found myself in various places and I finally found the time to write to you only recently. I have been travelling and my column will look quite different for the upcoming months. So let me introduce you to ‘The Hawthorn Letters’, an account of my travels addressed to you, my dear reader.

I have been quite busy with Mr. Buttons and making preparations for my departure. You see, I found this lovely gentleman in a corner of Edinburgh. I saw him sitting on the cold, stone stairs that lead to the Writer’s Museum. He was rather well dressed with a green tweed waistcoat and a monocle hanging from his pocket; and the faint smell of pipe tobacco emanating from him was rather intriguing.

As you may have noticed, it is rather rare to come across such a well dressed cat. He is a long-haired ginger cat and his fur is actually quite similar to my hair colour; except mine is a curly mess. Although, I suspect his grooming habits might be slightly more disciplined than mine, I never know what to do with my lion’s mane. I could barely squeeze it into my favourite tartan newsboy cap that day! I also noticed that he was reading Keats, one of my favourite poets. So naturally, I sat down and asked what his favourite poem was—‘Ode to a Nightingale’—which also happens to be one of my favourites alongside ‘To Autumn’ and ‘Bright Star, would I were steadfast as thou art’. Only later did I learn that his name was Bartholomew Buttons, though I prefer referring to him as Mr. Buttons in my letters; it would seem more appropriate.

We talked for a rather long time, so much so that it wasn’t until my watch struck 7 p.m that I realised I absolutely had to go to Sainsbury’s before closing, seeing as I had run out of my emergency can of baked beans—the one I always carry in my bag alongside a few pieces of toast and my favourite teaspoon—how absolutely calamitous! Especially seeing as I had planned to leave the following day. Anyway, Mr. Buttons decided to join me in my endeavour. We luckily made it to the shops before closing. I bought a can of baked beans and a can of tuna for my new companion, which happens to be his favourite food.

After that whole rather stressful ordeal, he asked me where I was planning on going, to which I responded ‘wherever the wind takes me!’ This is, of course, the only honest answer one can give when traveling by hot air balloon. I then proceeded to explain that I have a detailed itinerary, but I am open to spontaneity. My first destination would be Cornwall, I have only been there once with my parents as a child. At the time they had not yet retired to the Scottish highlands and my father still worked as an archeologist and historian, and my mother as a nature writer and botanist; although I don’t believe they are ever going to actually retire seeing as they are still both rather active in their respective crafts. Mum taught me everything I know about wildflowers and I remember how enthralled she was with the ones in Cornwall. In fact, in their most recent letter, she included a few of the ones she had collected and pressed during our trip about fifteen years ago, I must have been around seven or eight. I tucked them in my anthology of poetry by Walt Whitman between the pages of ‘Sea-Drift’. She included some Sea carrot, English stonecrop, Spring squill, and some Sheep’s-bit. How darling!

Instinctively, I asked Mr. Buttons if he wanted to join me on my travels. We had become such good friends in the last few hours, discussing our mutual love of poetry, my writing, his adventures… Can you believe that he is friends with a Parisian mouse named Gustave who steals croissants from bakeries. Sometimes he eats entire halves all at once! He even told me that he doesn’t even have a family to feed, Gustave is simply a ravenous little fellow. Oh! And a group of Italian mice in Florence who have a theatre company, how brilliant is that! I digress, Mr. Buttons was delighted by my offer and immediately accepted. We agreed to meet tomorrow morning at 8 o’clock sharp at Arthur’s Seat—Edinburgh’s highest point in order for the hot air balloon to catch its ever lasting wind easily. I have also learned from past experience that either taking off or landing in a city leads to people thinking that I am organising some sort of tourist attraction. It draws an awful lot of attention which I tend to dislike. I find it truly abhorrent that more people do not take up aeronautics, it does wonders for one’s sinuses! Nevertheless, I am off on my next adventure.

A view of Arthur’s Seat, just as the wind began to rise on the morning of my departure.

We are currently flying over Wales as I am writing this, I shall write again once our feet—and paws—touch Cornish soil.

Your friend,

Matilda Hawthorn

The Hawthorn Letters follow the bizarre adventures of Matilda Hawthorn. In Edinburgh where she lives and has worked for The Old Town Gazette for the past few years, she meets a certain Mr. Buttons. This long-haired ginger cat who wears a green tweed waistcoat and reads poetry quickly becomes Matilda’s travelling companion and together, they start roaming the United Kingdom in search of adventure. In a special column in the Gazette entitled ‘The Hawthorn Letters’ she recounts to readers addressed as her ‘dear friend’ in the form of letters, the wonderful places she visits, the strange people she encounters, and the odd events that take place around her during her travels.

Matilda Hawthorn

Matilda Hawthorn is a young English woman in her early twenties. She has long ginger hair which she often qualifies as a ‘curly mess’. Her face is covered in freckles and she has hazel eyes. Her wardrobe is almost entirely constituted of warm thick knitted jumpers, kilts, Victorian style blouses, and vintage pleated trousers. She always wears a long black coat, Victorian style brown lace up boots, and a signature tartan scarf. On occasion, she wears vintage tartan newsboy caps if her hair allows it.

She is very fond of reading and writing; in fact, she spends most of her free time doing one or the other. Matilda and Mr. Buttons share a common love of poetry and often read to each other on their travels. Matilda loves learning and will often wander into libraries or museums and spend hours there, often taking notes in her commonplace notebook. Her messy, untamed hair might appear slightly disheveled, however, she is in fact incredibly organised and rigorous in everything she does. Whether it be through her daily ritual of having tea, packing her suitcase or her bag, her writing, and trying her best not to crease her books. Her beloved books do not contain any marginalia, any thoughts that she may have, she writes down in her commonplace book; subtly showing her reverence for literature and her need for order.

Matilda adores Autumn and was actually born on the equinox, she also loves Winter. However, she loathes Summer. Her favourite meal is beans on toast, so much so that she always carries an emergency can of baked beans in her bag, alongside a few pieces of toast.

She may live in the twenty first century but Matilda seems like she might belong in a different era entirely. She does not own a phone and relies on paper maps for directions. She carries a vintage film camera—a treasured heirloom from her grandfather—as well as an instant camera which allows her to include photographs in her letters. She hates taking the plane and travels by hot air balloon for long distances. She enjoys taking the train and she and Mr. Buttons always share riveting conversations that occupy the ride.

Matilda is quite peculiar, she is rather odd and whimsical. She daydreams quite often and has a rich imagination that she uses to write her stories. Matilda is a very sensitive being who feels things very deeply; her poetry allows her to express her inner turmoil and excavations of the heart. She feels a very strong connection to nature and enjoys spending time studying insects, plants, and flowers. She loves roaming the English countryside—especially when the world feels overwhelming or if she is in need of inspiration—but she prefers city life. She is rather unaware of social constructs and often misunderstands or misses social cues. This may be why she appears so otherworldly to others; her quirky little habits and vibrant, extraordinarily bright personality also contribute to that impression.

She cannot go a day without a nice, warm cup of English breakfast tea—or five—that she enjoys having with a splash of milk and honey. She is very peculiar about dosage and therefore carries her own teaspoon so as to be as precise as possible. Her favourite fountain pen is one that has been in her family for generations, it was gifted to her on her eighteenth birthday. She keeps it in the interior pocket of her coat, alongside her commonplace notebook and a few sheets of writing paper for her letters.

She carries a slightly worn out, brown, leather messenger bag. Her bag is quite peculiar and no one knows if it is in fact normal size or much bigger than it looks. It seems that she can almost fit her entire life inside; that is the countless books she always carries, a collection of various notebooks, a large assortment of pens, dip pens, pencils, and inks. And, of course her emergency can of baked beans, Mr. Buttons’ emergency can of tuna, tea bags, an umbrella, a small magnifying glass, and a few other miscellaneous essentials. Well maybe not all of her life fits—after all, she does lug around an old trunk on her travels filled with clothes and perhaps a secret stash of even more books. But maybe that is just a clever ruse to mask the fact that her bag is a little bit magical. It is probably best to keep folks in the dark about this sort of information.

Matilda writes for a small gazette in Edinburgh, The Old Town Gazette, where she enjoys the privilege of being both the editor-in-chief’s dear friend and her most valued asset. The editor is well acquainted with Matilda’s peculiarities and has grown very fond of them over the years; she also knows just as well that Matilda is the paper’s finest writer. Readers delight in her curious way of seeing the world, and so Matilda is afforded the unusual liberty of writing on nearly any and all subjects that pique her fancy. She might be beloved by her readers, however, she often feels misunderstood. Her writing and her perspective on the world are so unique that most people believe that it is fiction writing. But perhaps what is most special about Matilda is that she sees things that only she has the ability to see.

Although Matilda loves her work and her life in Edinburgh, she has felt a sort of restlessness as of late; a longing for adventure. She spoke of this to her editor, who could not bear to lose such a brilliant writer, just as Matilda herself did not wish to part with her work. Thus, a compromise was happily struck: Matilda was now free to travel as far and wide as she wished, provided she send back a regular account of her travels for a special column in the gazette entitled ‘The Hawthorn Letters’. And that she also continues sending her poems, which her editor particularly enjoys.

Matilda has always been fond of travelling; her parents were explorers who gave her her taste for adventure. Her parents are both scholars who adore literature and both write—her father is an archaeologist and a historian and her mother, a writer and a botanist. In fact, she has taught Matilda ever since she was knee-high to a grasshopper about the many plants and wildflowers that can be found all over the world as they travelled together, starting only a few months after her birth. Her parents are splendid aeronauts who dislike taking the plane because who would want to be stuck in a metal cylinder for hours when you could enjoy the cold, fresh air during your travels. They have now retired to the quiet and windswept Scottish highlands, she visits them every few months or they visit her. They all enjoy spending their days together in the museums of Edinburgh or walking in the highlands; talking for hours about the many books they have read or their research. From her many travels, she gained her extraordinary open-mindedness. Her parents showed her the beauty and magic of this world; they are quite whimsical themselves. She is their spitting image: she inherited her mother’s luscious, curly, red hair, and her father and mother’s common love of academia and books.

Mr. Bartholomew Buttons

Matilda and Mr. Buttons meet in Edinburgh and quickly become close friends. Mr. Buttons—or Bartholomew, but Matilda prefers addressing him as Mr. Buttons in her letters—is a long-haired ginger cat who wears a green tweed waistcoat and carries a monocle in his pocket. He is fond of reading. Him and Matilda share a love of poetry and often read to one another during their travels, on train rides, boats, or aboard a hot hair balloon. He occasionally plays the fiddle and also enjoys reading Latin poetry.

Matilda does not question the fact that Mr. Buttons has the ability to speak, in fact, she does not even seem to notice how curious that is.

Mr. Buttons’ favourite food is canned tuna, he especially enjoys the juice. Matilda always makes sure to carry an emergency can, the same way she carries an emergency can of baked beans and a few pieces of toast, her favourite meal. On occasion, Mr. Buttons will indulge in cat treats, however they must be served in a porcelain plate. He also fancies a glass of Hendrick’s gin with a cigar, but that is a rare treat.

He feels very safe in Matilda’s company, she always makes sure that he is well taken care of and in busy places, she will put him in her bag so as not to lose him.

Mr. Buttons is also native to Edinburgh, and like Matilda, he enjoys travelling and has friends scattered across the globe, cats and mice alike. Matilda delights in listening to his tales. He tells her about how he likes to hop on boats along the coast or catch a train and simply see where it takes him. His journeys have carried him far and wide, from France to Italy, Ireland, all across the United Kingdom of course, Belgium, Denmark, and many other places.

He learned how to play the fiddle while visiting Ireland and has loved it ever since, though he does not own one. Well, it is rather odd for a cat to play the fiddle so naturally, it is difficult to find one that could fit his small size. When Matilda discovers this, she decides to surprise him with a custom made fiddle for their first Christmas together.

Much like Matilda, Mr. Buttons is a scholar. He takes immense pleasure in learning and has snuck into a few classes at the universities of Oxford, Edinburgh, and Cambridge on more than one occasion. He also snuck into the Sorbonne while in Paris a few years back. He is particularly interested in Latin, classics, ancient civilisations, poetry, and French philosophy.

Mr. Buttons is very polite, nevertheless like most other cats, he cannot stand the sight of dogs. He will hiss if one approaches him, but those are the only rare occasions on which he is not as civilised as he usually is. He does not however dislike mice, in fact he is friends with a group of Italian mice who live in Florence and run a small theatre company with the other neighbourhood mice, as well as a Parisian mouse who steals pieces of croissants from bakeries—sometimes entire halves—he doesn’t even have a family to feed, Gustave is simply a ravenous little fellow. Mr. Buttons enjoys telling his stories to Matilda; he is quite the storyteller.

When Mr. Buttons and Matilda meet, her preparations for her adventure are in full swing. In fact, she had been packing her trunk the very morning of her first encounter with Mr. Buttons. She explains her situation with the gazette to Mr. Buttons who then proceeds to tell her that he himself has been longing for more adventures. He had stopped travelling for a while and had settled back in Edinburgh, but recently, he has felt quite bored. This is what leads them to become travelling companions. During their travels, Mr. Buttons gradually becomes Matilda’s trusted advisor, often reviewing her pieces before they are sent over to the gazette.

Edinburgh, Princes Street Gardens

I carry the weight of what feels like a broken carcass;

The burden of my being.

An endless labyrinth of veins, nervous systems, bowels, and limbs,

To which I feel estranged, but I remain without choice;

Such is the human condition.

I remain,

Trapped in this labyrinth of mine.

One only I can navigate,

But one to which I have naught but a faint map of sensations.

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It quietly, yet steadfastly gnaws at me

And tears me apart from the inside out.

But without it, who am I ?

I crave it, yet despise it.

It kills me, yet sustains me.

No matter what, it is never enough.

I am never satisfied;

Like a voracious and ravenous monster

That has been incessantly feeding on my flesh

For as long as I can remember.

An unwavering parasite that seeps through my glass like skin and permeates my blood.

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I cannot stand the sight of a dead animal. Ever since I was a child, if I found a dead bee, my first thought was to pick it up, find a nice hidden place for it to lay, put a leaf or a flower over it; a small ceremony for such a marvellous creature is the least I can do. The sight of any animal on the side of the road makes me cry every time. If only I could give each and every one of them a funeral, giving their body back to nature, covered in flowers, moss, and leaves. I have endured the deaths of three of my pets. My cat Shakespeare who passed when I was six; my dwarf hamster Gustave when I was twelve; and my grandparents’ dog Hubble, when I was around fourteen.

Our family cat was a most wonderful being, he was kind, gentle, patient, and loving. He passed at sixteen years old from kidney failure, he was euthanised, a memory that still haunts me and a most unbearable heartache. My hamster Gustave was fantastic, he brought much light when I truly needed it most. My hands were the only ones he could find comfort in and sleep in, he never bit me—he bit everyone else in my family—I would always come find him if I was feeling sad. His silly little habits of running in his wheel, stuffing his checks until things started falling out, storing anything and everything in his little wooden home my grandad had crafted him, or simply watching him sleep could make me smile almost instantly. He died peacefully from old age in my hands, we had a proper funeral for him and buried him in a corner of our garden. My grandparents’ dog was my companion as much as he was theirs. They had him when I was very young, he immediately took a liking to me, and I him. He was protective, gentle, and had the kindest eyes. I would often find him blocking my bedroom door in the morning when I stayed at my grandparents’ house, I would nap on him as well, play in the garden for hours, and race him on my bicycle. He died from repetitive injuries that, in the end, could no longer be cured. The grief I have for these animals is one that will remain with me forever. Now, I must endure the dread and weight of the anticipatory grief that I have for my cat Winston. Death is awfully cruel in this respect.

‘Who shall tell the lady’s grief / When her cat was past relief ?’ ‘On the Death of a Cat’, Christina Rossetti, Selected Poems

I have always felt a very deep connection to nature. I could never explain it, it is simply elementary. My heart beats as one with the world, a heart beat that I feel within the depths of the infinite web of my soul. This almost mystical connection, is one that I cannot fully understand, nor one that I wish to understand, perhaps its beauty lies in its mystery. O world, how beautiful you are ! Perhaps, some part of this connection is linked to my love of animals. I have always preferred their company of to the company of humans. I think that there is such beauty in their lack of speech. People often say that they wish animals could speak, I disagree. I think this is why we are able to have such intense bonds with them, some sort of unspoken understanding. So much can be said without speaking.

While we were given the ability to speak, I think that we occasionally overlook how precious that gift actually is and how torturously complex it can be, and sometimes how simply unnecessary it is. I recently read Your Voice Speaks Volumes by Jane Setter, a British professor of phonetics with past experience as a forensic phonetician. I read this book for academic purposes and while I was expecting it to be a redundant account of my linguistics and phonetics modules—I study English Literature and history, these are mandatory classes to my great dismay—instead, I found that the author aims to reach a much deeper level of understanding of one one of the most crucial aspects of life and human interaction: the voice. As an autistic individual, I was hoping to get a deeper understanding of certain tones and meanings and how they are conveyed depending on context, seeing as I often face difficulties analysing such notions. I was instead left with an even greater sensitivity and awareness to the voices around me. Setter’s accomplishment with this book is that she manages to make listening a conscious act for her readers. I recommend this read if you are interested in how voices function in various social settings and how they relate to one’s identity and individuality. I digress. Nature speaks to us in numerous ways, through the seasons, the sun and the moon, the wind, the sea, animals, etc. Oscar Wilde wrote in De Profundis ‘We all look at nature too much, and live with her too little’ and I could not agree more. Nature has become secondary to everything and almost everyone, when for centuries, it was the most primary entity that inhabited all aspects of life. Are we really the most evolved version of humanity if we fail to recognise the importance of our most primary natural surroundings ? I think not.

On occasion, nature can even make us revert to a childlike state. It recently snowed heavily in Paris for a few days. I adore Winter and my love for snow is beyond my own understanding, I have so many wonderful childhood memories linked to snow—I think most of us do—I could not have been more enthralled. I went for a walk on the first day of snow and I saw people looking around, taking photos, I heard distant laughter in the park as I walked past, it was delightful. People of all ages were noticing this now rare occurrence and sharing similar reactions that made them all look like children again to me. I couldn’t help but have a faint smile on my face as I was walking. That evening, my parents and I had a snowball fight and we built a small snowman. Two days later, it kept snowing and my mother and I went to the Tuileries, I had brought my film camera in order to capture this gorgeous sight. The fountain was frozen over, people had built many snowmen and were having snowball fights. I wish things could always be that simple.

Paris in the snow, Jardin des Tuileries.

Coming back to loss. As someone who has always been very close to nature if you will, I have always felt great pain when species are declared extinct. I am grieving the loss of our planet’s most beautiful nature as it slowly decays and withers away. As a very young child when I learned about the sun’s longevity and its eventual death, even if I realised very quickly that I was not going to be around when it happens, I was filled with an immense sense of impending doom and dread. I felt like my whole world had fallen apart. Today, I am becoming increasingly filled with this same sense of impeding doom and dread. It is getting harder to not imagine the death of our planet.

I may not have experienced the loss of my loved ones yet, but I have experienced tremendous loss nonetheless. I grieve for my childhood that was taken from me too soon, a friendship, all the careers I will not have the opportunity to pursue—my figs—I grieve the places I might never see, the words I may never write, the books I may never read, the life I could’ve lived if none of what happened to me happened to me… Perhaps I dwell on these things too much and too often, I’m afraid I can’t help myself. Nostalgia will be the death of me.

It is ancient, encrypted with a forgotten language,

One only I can decipher.

Fragments of lives I have lived but that do not belong to me appear through the cracks of time.

I cannot grasp this world in its entirety for I am filled with one of my own.

Carved from the stones left by the souls who linger in my mind,

Woven from the filaments of their lives;

My infinite world spins incessantly.

This body may be finite, but my existence is not.

My life began long before my time,

Like an everlasting tree, ever growing.

My death will not be my end, this I swear,

For I am infinite.

Being so sensitive can be painful, Charlie once said: ‘There is so much pain, and I don’t know how to not notice it’ and this quote sums up, in my opinion, what it is to be a wallflower, and what it is like to be immeasurably empathetic. Frankly, when I first watched The Perks of being a Wallflower at around 13 years old, it felt like looking into a mirror, and I felt seen, like I had never been before, and I had the same experience when reading the book later on. For a few years of my life, feeling had become so overwhelming and painful, that I shut myself out. I pretended to be numb, so much so that I fooled myself into thinking that I was a heartless person who lacked empathy. This did make things worse for I was in fact feeling everything, yet I was ignoring it and bottling everything up. This would lead to extreme anxiety attacks, some lasted so long and were so trying that I thought I was dying, as well as terribly dark depressive episodes. The worst part was not knowing exactly what the cause was. It was rather like a storm, seemingly unleashing Zeus’s wrath, would rain down on me, pulverising in its wake, every wall I had carefully crafted to keep out my own emotions.

I believe that the worst thing about being this way is how isolating it can be. Very few people understand or have tried to understand, and I am often mistaken as a dramatic person who overreacts or is too sensitive. I was quite embarrassed by it for a long time, I felt ashamed of how often I cry for little things, the smallest disagreement with someone, getting angry without tears is almost impossible for me, films, music, reading, writing, or simply witnessing something beautiful.

I possess a memory, that I believe illustrates my point, when I was 10 years old, my favourite painting for a time was The Great Wave off Kanagawa, printed by Hokusai in 1831. At the time, I had a fascination for Japanese culture during the Edo period, print, tea ceremonies and the artists of this time. The Musée Guimet in Paris exhibited it in 2017. I was absolutely ecstatic, my parents and I went to the exhibition, and they saw it before I did. They brought me to it, it was hidden behind a black cloth so as to not be damaged by the light, and it had to be lifted in order to see it. I didn’t realise that that was what was being shown to me before I was actually standing in front of it. My parents lifted the cloth, and what I felt upon laying my eyes on its sumptuous beauty is a feeling I have only experienced rarely, and I started to cry. I was overwhelmed with its incredible splendour, I spent what felt like hours standing in front of it, admiring every single detail I had already noticed and acutely studied, but this time, it was real.

Every atom of oxygen in our lungs, of carbon in our muscles, of calcium in our bones, or iron in our blood, was created inside a star before Earth was born. We are made of Stardust. I believe that some feelings are so cosmically large, they almost become celestial. In that moment in the museum, the vessel of my body became so infinite that I became so much larger than myself, everything around me did. As an atheist, I do not believe in any god, but I do believe in the strength of the universe, fate if you will, to which we are intimately linked, stringed through the stars and the infinity of space. I have this image of Stardust running through our veins, giving us the capacity to have feelings as large as space itself, boundless.

‘I am large, I contain multitudes.’ — Walt Whitman, Song of Myself, 51

This is a rare feeling, yet, I was lucky enough to experience it more than once. For instance, when first witnessing the tunnel scene at the end of The Perks of being a Wallflower, accompanied by Charlie’s monologue and one of my favourite songs: ‘Heroes’, by David Bowie. A scene during which Charlie says ‘in this moment, I swear, we are infinite’ a quote that perfectly illustrates my point once again, and a scene that made me feel infinite as well. When I first listened to another one of my favourite songs, about 5 or 6 years ago, ‘Let Down’ by Radiohead, my favourite band. When I arrived in London for the first time I visited, the city that has been calling my name for years, and one of the few places where I feel that I belong. Better yet, when I visited Edinburgh, where I experienced a sense a belonging stronger than ever before. When I read the fig tree analogy in one of my favourite novels; The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. When I first watched Dead Poets Society at around 11. Or when I am standing on the Devon moors, wind in my hair, high up on the rocks of Haytor.

I have realised over time, that very few people experience things this way. I feel it is important to note that however splendid, grand, and sublime some feelings may be, some feelings can sometimes feel like death itself. I have yet to experience my physical death of course, but I have had experiences that felt like my soul was dying, like my body was empty, carrying its own corpse, only it wasn’t my physical corpse. Some feelings provide me with such despair, anguish, and desolation, that I cannot breathe. It feels like I am ripping my own heart out, this also provides me with such anger towards myself for feeling certain ways. I often ask myself : ‘Why am I like this ?’ out of desperation and exasperation.

I have only become so self aware in the past three years, when I finally forced myself out of my agonising self inflicted exile from my own emotions. Though strenuous, harrowing, and disconcerting at times, this journey, that I am still on and will perhaps always be on, is possibly one of, if not the most eye opening time of my life. As a child, this all felt so abstract, I remember being so lost in myself, sometimes understanding my feelings to the very depth of my bone marrow, yet not having the capacity to articulate their scale. And sometimes, I would find myself—as I still do today—at the edge of what felt like an unfathomably deep chasm, unable to decipher anything of the abyss of emotions that lay before me.

I have always felt like too much and not enough at the same time. I rarely feel comfortable expressing my feelings, by fear of most certainly being misunderstood, or by fear of being a burden, as I have felt like one my whole life. I often circle back to this quote: ‘Is it better to speak or to die ?’ said by Elio’s mother in Call Me by Your Name. A few years ago, my answer to that question was the first option, I would have rather died than lay myself bare, and face the loneliness of being misunderstood, and the crushing weight of feeling like a burden. Today, I choose the latter. Being vulnerable, or overly sensitive, and afraid of being lonely by fear of being misunderstood are things I used to be ashamed of, but over time, I realised that feeling is the single most beautiful human experience, and therefore, there cannot be shame in it.

If you, dear reader, can take away one thing from my ramblings, I would hope that it would be that there is immeasurable beauty in the act of feeling, in the act of expressing one’s feelings, in whatever shape or form that may be. I ask only one thing of you, to whom it may concern, and to the few who read this, choose the latter, as Dylan Thomas said, ‘do not go gentle into that good night.’ Do not let yourself wither away when there is so much beauty to witness and so many things to feel. Finally, I will leave you with a few last words of wisdom, Oscar Wilde said : ‘It takes a great deal of courage to see the world in all its tainted glory and still love it.’

Where only a thin veil,

Woven from the grey of grief, separates us.

Still, we all stand in the same place,

But I remain a visitor for now.

Where lovers are buried beside each other,

Vines holding their fractured tombstones together,

As if their bodies were still intertwined beneath the ground.

Where children visit their parents,

And where desolate parents visit their children,

Like a grim accident of the world.

I am a one winged bird, tied to the ground by invisible shackles;

Like the glass souls who wander aimlessly, both living and dead.

I believe that for some of us, the season we were born into is intimately linked to who we are, and the way we see things. I was born on the 21st of September 2007, the Autumn Equinox that year. Coincidentally, or not, Autumn is the season where I feel most myself, in every way possible. It has been my favourite season for as long as I can remember and I relish in it each year. I wait for it impatiently and eagerly, like a little kid waiting to open presents on Christmas morning, what I feel is almost impossible to describe. My best friend recently told me that I looked like Autumn, which is perhaps one of the best compliments I have ever received. As soon as the first cold day, dry, fallen leaf, and breeze of crisp Autumn air presents itself, I feel electrified, like something was given back to me.

When most individuals suffer from seasonal depression during the autumnal and wintery months, mine is during the Summer. Autumn comes as a great relief from the seemingly never ending, abyssal spiral that is summer to me.The weather sometimes makes me feel physically ill, like every nerve in my body is going to burst. The windless days and crushing heat compress, and overwhelm me. I hate having to give up my warm knitted jumpers and my collared shirts nestled underneath, my wool socks, my plaid scarf, my coat, my kilt and tights… and instead having to show the skin that I so long to shed.

There is an invisible string tying us to the seasons we are born into. I see it with the people around me, my brother, born on a 4th of July, my mother born on a 28th of July, my father on a 7th of October, or my best friend, born on a 29th of June. They all possess features that resemble their time of year, wether it is their personality traits, their looks, or the way they perceive things. We all bloom when we are supposed to, much like the earth we stand on, intimately linking us to it. There is such beauty in seeing the planet evolve, flower, shed, and grow, just as beautiful as seeing people move through the different seasons of their lives. The earth, by shedding its leaves, shows us the beauty of letting things go, and growing again from nothing, much like a phoenix rising from its ashes.

Winter, as cold as it can be is somehow the warmest season. It might be difficult for those who experience seasonal depression during this time, but I think that almost everyone is filled with joy in December. The last month of the year is filled with bubbly anticipation, and excitement, like a botte of champagne waiting to pop, like the one we open on the 24th. Every adult reverts to their childlike selves on the 25th, and every child is even more childish than they were the night before. As a 17, soon to be 18 year old, I am still unable to sleep on the night preluding the 25th. My favourite part of Christmas is the time leading up to it, everyone sneakily prepares their presents, I am almost more excited for my family to open their gifts from me, than I am to open my own. It is why I adore hunting for the most perfect gift for each individual, making it as personal as can be. Decorating begins on the 1st of November, right after my second favourite holiday comes to an end. I want to savour every second of what Christmas is, and the most important part of what it is, is how we experience it.

After Christmas, comes true Winter: January, and February. Although considered as bleak, dismal, or dreary, for me, this time is rather a time of reflection and quiet. I also thoroughly enjoy the extreme cold that these months bring. It is a time of patience, when we can admire the trees in their purest, naked form, and their tranquil growing once again. I realised that a common feeling, is that March marks the true beginning of the year for a lot of people. The first two months of the year almost feel like hibernation. Everyone seems to be collecting themselves. We put away the Christmas decorations, our homes return to their normal states. Nevertheless, I think that I love my house most in the winter, the Christmas tree makes it seem even more alive, warm, and inviting. The lights from the tree and the chimney shine through the windows. My bedroom also has a small tree, cosy sheets, decorations on the chimney and on my bookshelves. It is why I wait until the end of January to put them away, I linger in the warmth and comfort that makes my room feel even more safe than it already is.

March marks the arrival of Spring, it is vibrantly green, and when most people gain their colour back, while I, reluctantly and slowly let go of Winter. In the horizon of Spring, stands the gateway to Summer, my nemesis. The beginning of Spring is not what brings my downfall, the end is, for I know full well what misery awaits me. The only escapes I find in the Summer are travelling, the rare rainy days that I enjoy with every cell in my body, a few hours at the cinema, or at the museum, or at a coffee shop either alone with a good book or good company, and, come to think of it, both are good company.

Stuck in the limbo between Summer and Autumn, I now eagerly await the cold, the flamboyant leaves, and the rain, as I watch each Summer day dwindle and become colder than the one that came before.

Donate my organs,

The living pieces of my dead body.

But leave my heart, my lungs, my brain.

I want to be buried as myself.

I hope that my heart and mind can find the peace they have so longed for.

I hope that my lungs can breath the purest air,

The breath of the earth itself.

I hope they can rest easy,

Their breath no longer dictated by the constant pressure of my mind.

No longer aching to breathe the way they did when I was born.

Bury me under my favourite tree,

A weeping willow.

I hope its long, soft, and flexible branches keep me safe, protected, encapsulated,

Like a secret garden,

Only to be opened by the ones who loved me, truly.

Return me to my purest form,

Let the earth take me into her warm embrace.

The softest kiss,

The one that brings relief.

My limbs will become roots.

My nervous system, intertwined with the faint swaying of my tree.

My heartbeat, becoming one with nature’s.

From my body will grow wildflowers and moss.

Am I really a corpse if I can still give life ?

I decided to go for a walk.

As soon as I stepped outside, the cold air burned my nose,

Sustaining my sinus infection —

But it was the last days of my illness

And I told myself ‘a walk might be good, it’ll help’—

My street was calm, as it usually is.

It was cold, but not as cold as yesterday.

Yet, I still felt it in my bones,

My breath was like a cloud in front of my face,

I could still see it, even with my face buried in my plaid scarf.

I roamed the streets, without aim or purpose.

As I walked through the city centre,

I heard bell chimes behind me,

3 or 4, I can’t remember.

I thought it strange because I remember leaving around 4.

But I didn’t check the time,

It doesn’t matter anyway, it’s a Sunday.

I kept walking.

I saw people, couples, old and young, families,

With bags and sometimes arms, filled with wrapped gifts and boxes,

Tis’ the season after all.

A few steps after, I saw children playing together,

With an elastic band around their ankles, jumping and balancing on one foot.

I felt relieved for some reason,

Maybe I am not as old as the dawn of my 18th birthday tells me I am.

The chimes of the bell left me wondering how long I had been walking for.

I figured it could not have been that long,

And with that in mind,

I kept walking.

In my ears, Adagio Per Archi E Organo In Sol Minore, was playing.

This ritual was solemn, almost like a funeral.

But no one was dead or missing,

Maybe it was my inner child who had disappeared,

And perhaps I was looking for her.

I noticed above my head that a light had turned on.

It was the streets’ Christmas lights.

These ones were not my favourite,

Blue and icy.

The ones that ornate the Main Street I prefer,

Yellow and warm.

In this moment,

I felt that she came back to me for just an instant.

‘Just a few more minutes and I’ll make my way home’ I thought.

I passed by the busy town square, people everywhere.

It’s a Sunday, one of the only free days of the week.

I passed by the cafe,

People walked slowly which annoyed me,

Yet some still managed to shove me as if I was invisible,

Maybe I was.

I walked down the street I have known my whole life,

It was darker than when I left and not many windows were lit.

I walked up the alley leading to my house,

I put in my key to open the gate,

I turned around for one last look and a few windows lit up.

I put my coat away as usual,

My mother and I exchanged a few words and I went up to my bedroom,

Darker than how I left it.

I laid on my bed and closed my eyes for a few moments,

As I sniffled softly.